The tea in the cup beside me had grown cold. There were now several unattractive dark splotches floating on its surface. I wasn’t usually so easily distracted.
I thought about going downstairs to make a fresh one, but the kitchen of my family home was already full to bursting with our visiting guests and relatives. Besides, was anyone supposed to see me until the church ceremony? I couldn’t remember the etiquette. I put the cup back down on my bedside table. There would be more than enough to eat and drink at the hotel reception. The caterers had come highly recommended and the menu they had suggested for today was perfect. That, at least, had been one less thing we had had to plan.
I had a fleeting moment of panic when I glanced at the clock and then an even greater one when I turned back to my dressing table mirror. My hand flew to my throat and I gasped, because suddenly it wasn’t my own familiar image staring back at me, but that of a much older woman, her face softly lined, her skin no longer firm and smooth. There were grooves fanning from the edges of her eyes and time had scored etch marks beside her mouth, which was open in shocked surprise. It was my mother. I was so startled by the vision of her that I actually turned and looked over my shoulder to see if she was standing behind me. But the room, of course, was empty.
I looked back into the glass and reached out my hand to its surface, my fingers longing to trace the shape of her face, the sweep of her hair, still rich in colour, but when I made contact with the mirror she disappeared, and I was back there in her place.